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Peter was hungry.
No, that was a lie.
He was absolutely starving.
Peter winced at the melodramatic thought but really, he didn’t know how else to describe it.
He wearily trudged into the tower and walked the well-known path to the elevator that would take him to the upper floors where Tony and the other members of the team lived.
Since the utterly insane fight at that airport in Germany, plenty of things had changed. The issues with the Accords have been resolved after, from what Peter could tell, much arguing and many creative threats from Tony, but eventually the Avengers had managed to reconcile their differences. Tony bought back the tower; Peter had smiled secretly when the man had listed off the numerous reasons why he had done so and ‘keeping an eye on the friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man’ had been one of them. Due to that, the mentoring and cover story of an internship had continued and six months down the line, Peter was a somewhat regular guest at the tower.
Which was just all kinds of insane.
Just like his hunger.
The sound of his stomach growling was obscenely loud in the elevator and Peter flushed eve though he was alone.
He knew that his appetite had become quite excessive since the bite. Ned had stared at him in absolutely delighted astonishment when Peter had devoured two large pizzas and four sides of chicken wings during one sleepover, and that had been before his best friend knew about Spider-Man so Peter had actually been holding back that night.
It hadn’t been so bad then.
These days, it was almost overwhelming.
Peter heaved out a heavy sigh. Fridays usually meant decathlon practice which would notoriously last for hours, followed by patrol if there was enough time, and a fairly late arrival at the tower where Tony would be waiting for him down in the lab, music blaring and Dum-E dutifully waving a fire extinguisher in greeting. Practice made it so they had to cut their lab time short so Peter had been more than glad when MJ had announced earlier on in the week that from now on, all sessions would be held on a Thursday after school instead. Peter was glad because that meant there would be more time to hang out at the tower, more time to spend with Tony.
More time to not focus on the incessant hunger.
His stomach rumbled again and Peter moaned softly, wishing the thing would just shut up already.
The elevator doors opened and he only took a few steps forward into the penthouse before he stopped at the sight of the group of people gathered in the kitchen. There were empty pizza boxes scattered all over the place and a stack of dirty plates waiting in the sink. Steve, who was collecting the last of the crockery from the kitchen counter, looked up and spotted Peter in the doorway.
''Oh, hi Peter,'' he greeted with a smile.
Tony’s head peered round Steve’s left side. ''Underoos! You’re early!''
''Uh, yeah…'' Peter shrank a little as multiple pairs of eyes suddenly looked at him. ''Decathlon meeting got switched to another day so…um, I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.''
He hurried along, casting a forlorn look at the few crumbs that lingered in the cardboard boxes on the side, and hid in the bathroom until he couldn’t hear the sound of voices chatting cheerfully away as their Friday night dinner came to a close. When he figured it was safe, he headed down to join Tony in the lab, pasting a bright smile on his face so that the man wouldn’t suspect anything.
They worked on upgrades for the Spider-Man suit for a few hours and Peter, knowing that Tony had already eaten and therefore wouldn’t take a break for the rest of the evening, talked himself out of asking if he could grab a snack at least four times, making do with cups of bitter black coffee and bottles of chilled water from the mini fridge.
When he got home, he devoured the leftover meatloaf May had plated up for him, along with two yoghurts and a croissant that should have been for breakfast the next morning.
He went to bed that night with hunger pains.
It wasn’t that Peter didn’t eat, because he did. He ate quite a lot. Breakfast, lunch and dinner; family sized bags of chips split between him and Ned, multiple candy bars from the vending machines, snacks during decathlon meetings, whatever fruit was in the bowl at home and, when he had a little spare cash, a number 5 sandwich from Delmar’s. It was still more than the average person; he doubted most teenagers could consume an entire bunch of bananas in one go and still feel like they hadn’t eaten for three days like he could.
He also doubted anybody else could eat three heaping portions of pasta bake (which was two more platefuls than their aunt had eaten) at dinner and still feel ravenous like he could.
He tried to eat as much as possible, but as the bills got higher and the fridge got emptier and May became more and more anxious and worn down, he started to eat less because it was the only thing he could think of that might help. If he didn’t eat so much, the fridge had more in it for longer, then May wouldn’t have to budget for more food which meant money wouldn’t be so tight.
It was a desperate solution to a problem but, short of robbing grocery stores, Peter couldn’t see another way.
Peter knew he should say something. He had come close once or twice, calling May’s name and waiting for her to turn around with an enquiring smile before completely losing his nerve, mumbling something weird that had her blinking at him before chuckling dryly at his antics. He really had tried but he just knew how it would go; May would worry, blame herself, push herself to take one even more hours, all for him.
Him and his stupid metabolism that made him want to crawl out of his skin and scream sometimes just for how hungry he felt.
Peter didn’t even dare considering telling Tony. Though much time had passed since the whole suit taking incident, the worry of it happening again, of appearing inadequate and incapable in the eyes of his mentor, was enough to make Peter keep his insatiable appetite to himself.
A week later, Peter arrived to find the team finishing off the remains of a big Chinese takeaway; the few pieces of noodles and the spoonful of rice that were left seemed to taunt him from across the room as Tony wiped his mouth with a napkin and came over to him.
''Early again, kid?''
Peter shuffled his feet awkwardly and felt his fingers immediately begin to twist together anxiously. ''Meeting got switched,'' he said, feeling a bit confused because he knew he’d mentioned that to Tony the week before, and it wasn’t like the man to forget because he didn’t forget things. At least, that’s what he'd overheard Tony grouchily insist to Steve on a few occasions.
Which meant that the gathering in front of him wasn’t something that Tony had forgotten to mention to him.
It was something that Tony hadn’t invited him to.
By the following Friday, Peter knew that it was a weekly thing, that every Friday night was an Avengers dinner night, or at least a dinner for the original team of six unless those living in the compound fancied joining them.
And Peter wasn’t invited.
Which was one horribly overwhelming issue to deal with on its own.
But combined with the consistent gnawing hunger in his belly? Well, that was just something else.
And yeah, okay, Peter wasn’t actually an Avenger so he guessed it made sense that he wasn’t invited to team dinners, but that didn’t make it sting any less, especially because he thought the others liked having him around.
Especially because he thought Tony had wanted him around.
It also didn’t help his raving appetite to know that the team were consuming what could only be described as monstrous portions of food. Peter didn’t even want to think of how much the bill came to but it was undoubtedly more than he and May could afford to spend on groceries in a month, maybe more.
It wasn’t like Peter wasn’t fed when he stayed at the tower. Steve was quite a good cook and would fix him a plate of dinner, but the portions just weren’t big enough and no matter how much he wanted to, Peter just couldn’t find the words to ask for more. Sometimes he got lucky and the super-soldier would hold the pan of food up questioningly before scooping more into Peter’s plate, but those instances always depended on how many of the team were in residence.
Tony, having the skill set of approximately three meals under his belt, tended to prefer takeout; he’d order two large pizzas for the two of them to share during a movie and that, along with a couple of bowls of popcorn and some ice cream, would make a small dent in the demanding monster inside Peter’s stomach but it never lasted for long.
Peter knew it was stupid. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew.
But that didn’t stop the flare of embarrassment in the pit of his stomach, hot and roiling, or the tiptoe of anxiety across his skin, into his thoughts, pushy and insistent, twisting everything and tying it back up all wrong.
He knew it was stupid.
But knowing didn’t do a thing to help.
He didn’t feel like he could take from the fridge anymore. He told himself that it was because of the dinners - If Tony didn’t want him at the team dinners, why would he be happy with Peter taking food from his fridge? But really, it was because he knew that once presented with the abundance of food behind that magnet covered door, he’d struggle to control himself. The amount he would need to eat to even feel slightly satisfied was way, way beyond the parameters of what would be considered polite.
Still, Peter had considered it a few times, tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous as he had stood there with the door open and stared hungrily at the overspill of food inside. The last time he tried, he’d reached out timidly to take out something, anything, before Steve’s firm command of 'shut the door, Peter, you’re letting the cold air out' had him slamming the door shut with lightning speed.
And so it went on and on, hunger growing and relentless shame leaving Peter feeling raw and open, like he was being bodily exposed without a jacket to cover himself. He felt exhausted, bone-weary and worn down to a dull point.
Upon his visit to the tower a few Fridays later, Peter wasted no time in retreating to the room he was staying in as soon as he arrived. He hadn’t wanted to spend the night but May had insisted on asking Tony, not wanting Peter to be by himself while she visited an old college friend for the weekend.
''He says Happy will collect you from school and take you straight to the tower,'' May had said, smiling excitedly at him, for him, because she knew how much all of it - the time spent with Tony, the help with Spider-Man, the lab privileges - meant to him.
Peter had only smiled weakly in return and sat in silence all the way to the tower from school, pointedly ignoring the looks of concern that Happy kept shooting at him. He headed straight for his room, keeping his head down and mumbling something about homework as he hurried along, not lifting his gaze past his own feet even when he heard multiple voices call out after him, steadfastly ignoring the taunting aroma of the Thai food the team had ordered in.
Tony didn’t come to pull Peter out of his self-imposed Friday night exile, but Peter could hear the hushed conversations that filtered down through the walls.
''Are you sure he’s okay, Tony?''
''If okay means hiding in his room like a regular, angsty teenager, sure, he’s fine.''
''Tony…''
A heavy sigh. ''I don’t know, Cap.''
Peter’s heart was pounding in his head by then, blocking out whatever else might have been said. He stared down at the collection of empty candy wrappers on his bed, the odd chip bag dotted amongst them, and swallowed heavily as nausea began to dance a furious tango with his hunger, making him want to hurl and devour at the same time. He'd bought as many as he could from the vending machines with what little cash he had, vainly hoping that they'd take the edge off just enough for him to make it through, but they'd barely touched the sides.
He stayed in his room for the rest of the evening, feigning sleep when Tony actually came to check on him, knocking softly on the door with a ''you okay, kid?'' before leaving with a strange little sigh.
Eventually, after enough hours had ticked by, Peter eased open the door and made his way into the kitchen. He took a cautious peek around the door frame to check that the coast was clear. Seeing no sign of anybody else, he scurried across the room and came to stand in front of the fridge.
It towered over him, both alluring and foreboding in its appearance. Peter wriggled his fingers thoughtfully, bouncing on his feet with indecisiveness, with a weight of guilt pressing in on him. It felt all kinds of wrong, but the ferocious beast of hunger in his stomach was unwilling to be ignored, and it was with shameful defeat that Peter opened the door.
He grabbed at whatever he could get hold of. Two pots of yogurt slid down his throat with ease, slices of cheese and ham were pressed together as a breadless sandwich and wolfed down with gusto and four peaches were devoured in rapid time, leaving sticky smears across Peter’s chin. Some salami and half a bunch of grapes quickly followed. He yanked out a leftover tub of rice from that evening’s takeout and scooped out massive handfuls, dropping pieces all over the floor but he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Once that was done, his eyes zeroed in on the plate of pizza that sat on the middle shelf. He slid it out and set it on the counter to remove the plastic covering.
The slices had curled and shrivelled slightly, a sign of being past their best, but Peter only had to catch the scent of cured ham and tomato sauce before he was shovelling them into his mouth, practically gagging in his haste to consume them. His stomach was still growling but it was quieter than it had been in ages, something that allowed for the racing guilt he felt for eating food that didn’t belong to him to simmer down just a fraction.
He was just reaching for the last slice on the plate when he sensed somebody else enter the room.
''Whoa,'' a familiar voice chuckled. ''When you get a midnight snack, you sure go all out, kid.''
Peter fumbled the pizza slice in his greasy fingers as he whirled around. Pure blinding panic filled him up as Tony approached the kitchen. Peter barely had time to wonder how he hadn’t heard the arrival of the elevator or how he hadn’t sensed someone coming before Tony drew close enough to get a good look at the mess covering a good deal of the kitchen.
Tony’s expression pinched into a curious frown as he studied the sprinkling of rice on the floor, the discarded food containers on the side and the smear of peach juice on Peter’s face.
''You stocking up for the winter there or something, Underoos?''
Something about the use of the nickname triggered a swelling of emotion inside Peter. It flared up deep within and seemed to ricochet through his ribs and smack heavily into his heart, increasing the rate of beats per minute by a furious amount. He gasped at the sensation and took a step back, flinching as Tony’s eyes widened in confusion.
''Kid?''
He couldn’t hold it in any longer. With a whimper, Peter dropped the pizza slice and slapped his hand over his eyes to try and hold the tears in. He could feel his chin trembling and his throat ached horribly as he fought back a sob.
''Talk to me, kid,'' Tony said softly as he drew close and slid an arm around Peter’s shoulders. Peter tried to pull away but Tony held tight. ''Whatever it is, you can tell me.''
Peter shook his head but found himself clinging onto Tony, grubby fingers curling into the edge of his shirt. He couldn’t help looking at the pizza slice on the counter and tensed as he felt Tony’s head turn to follow his gaze.
''Pete…'' Tony said hesitantly, ''are you still hungry?''
The last word was heavy with sudden realisation, insinuating and asking too many things at once and it made Peter immediately recoil. He felt himself vibrating uncontrollably; saliva suddenly swished through his mouth and his fingers tingled strangely. Everything felt hot as shame and anxiousness darted through him in a flash, making his eyes burn even more.
''Pete, what’s – hey…''
The dam was breaking and Peter just wanted to get away, get far away as all the humiliation and shame and loneliness that he had been feeling for weeks and weeks collided inside him. It was too late though and with another strangled gasp, he burst into tears.
''Peter – '' Tony’s voice was a mixture of surprise and worry. Peter tried to move away from him, feeling so beyond unbearably mortified that he just wanted to curl up into a ball right there on the floor, but Tony increased the hold he had around Peter’s shoulders and pulled back. After a brief struggle with Peter weakly shoving at Tony’s chest, Peter gave up and allowed Tony’s other arm to encircle him and pull him into a tentative but warm hug.
''It’s okay, kid,'' Tony murmured as Peter cried, choking pathetically as he felt a hand slide tentatively up his neck and tenderly cup the back of his head, fingers patting his hair gently. ''It’s okay.''
God, he felt pathetic. He couldn’t stop the tears as they poured out of him, the sobs increasing as his stomach growled so loudly that it made the hand on his head pause. The embarrassment was unbearable and suffocating in its intensity, but Tony stayed right where he was, which meant that Peter did too.
They’d never hugged before. The odd one-armed shoulder squeeze or pat on the back were about as far as it went. Maybe the occasional hair ruffle if Tony was in a particularly happy mood but hugging just wasn’t part of whatever their dynamic was.
Until now, at least.
Tony pulled back a little after another minute and took hold of Peter’s shoulders, bending his legs so that their eyes made direct contact, not that Peter could see much as the tears continued to fall.
''Clearly, we need to have a talk. But first, I’m thinking you’re in need of something extra sugary and extra calorific to appease that monster in your stomach, am I right?''
Peter nodded because he figured that was what he was supposed to do.
''Well, it just so happens that you’re looking at a bona fide pancake making expert, kiddo.''
Peter scrubbed a hand over his eyes to clear his vision. Sure enough, those words had in fact come from Tony’s mouth.
''Oh yeah,'' Tony affirmed in response to the bewildered look Peter gave him. ''Don’t ask me how because I can’t make anything else, not without a great risk of poisoning someone. One of the rare anomalies of life. So!'' Tony clapped his hands and moved towards the fridge, stepping over the mess as though it wasn't there.
''Mister Stark,'' Peter said shakily, fingers pulling at the hem of shirt awkwardly. ''You really don’t have to.''
''Oh this isn’t just about you, kid. I like opening refrigerators. It soothes me.''
The odd confession startled Peter into a laugh, small and quiet, but a laugh all the same. The sound made Tony grin before he ducked his head inside the fridge and began rooting around for what he needed.
Soon enough, Peter was sat at the counter, a tower of blueberry pancakes stacked high on a plate in front of him. Tony’s tongue poked out from between his teeth as he liberally poured syrup onto the stack, followed by an elaborate swirl of whipped cream, before stepping back with his arms spread wide.
''Huh? Not bad, right?''
It was an impressive sight. Not so much the pancakes but Tony, shirt covered in flour and a smudge of blueberry juice on his left cheekbone, grinning in the way that he did when he’d invented something pretty spectacular.
''Yeah,'' Peter nodded politely, completely overwhelmed. ''It, uh, looks good.''
A knife and fork were slid across to him.
''Dig in, kid.''
Swallowing the flood of saliva rushing over his tongue, Peter cut a tiny piece from the bottom pancake and raised it slowly. His mouth watered even more as it touched his lips, and then suddenly he was a whirlwind, shoving great big chunks of food into his mouth so fast that the fork rattled his teeth, swallowing huge pieces that squeezed tightly down his throat, and it was only when he glanced up and caught Tony staring at him with wide, sad eyes that he realised what he was doing.
He was aware of the sticky smear of blueberry juice on his chin, the foamy touch of whipped cream on his cheek and there was a rolling sensation in his stomach as disgust and self-loathing began to do combat for dominance. Peter jerked back from the table, accidentally shoving the plate so hard that it slid over the edge and smashed onto the floor.
''I – I’m sorry, I – ''
Tony was moving towards him, hands held out placatingly but Peter couldn’t bear the look on his face and stumbled away, mumbling apologies as he went until Tony somehow managed to get a grip on his arms and hold on tight.
''Hey, it’s okay, you’re alright.''
Peter looked at him, chest clenching at the unmistakable light of worry in Tony’s eyes. His face remained firm however, jaw set in same way that it had been when he took Peter’s suit, and it was that thought that danced through Peter’s mind, overriding every rational thought with startling speed.
As though he knew what Peter was thinking, Tony’s face softened dramatically, turning a shade of fond that Peter had never seen on him before. A hand moved up from his arm to the back of his neck and rested there firmly just like before, anchoring him, holding him steady so that he could catch a breath of air against the tide of turmoil.
''Let’s get you sorted, huh?''
Peter could only nod weakly as he lifted a hand to once again curl his fingers desperately into the back of Tony’s shirt, holding on for dear life.
Peter sat on a gurney in the medbay lab, legs swinging anxiously as he watched Tony and Bruce rotate around each other in the middle of a series of holograms, mumbling ideas back and forth.
Tony had cleaned away the mess from Peter’s face with such surprising tenderness that Peter had sat there in quiet shock, leaning gratefully into the touch as the cold washcloth was pressed gently against his skin in delicate brushes. Bruce had met them shortly after that, had carried out a series of routine tests, taken some bloods and smiled reassuringly at Peter the entire time, though it did nothing to soothe him.
Peter watched Tony pivot and twirl, tap peculiar beats on his chest and huff out little snippets of song between his lips as he studied the holograms, eyes dark with thought and intrigue. Bruce stood perfectly still beside him, only moving to step out of Tony’s way, head tilted and eyes narrowed in silent thought.
A soft beep captured Peter’s attention and he turned his head. Dum-E, summoned as a distraction for Peter from Tony's lab, tentatively held out a pencil with a whirr, gently waving the object encouragingly. Peter smiled, feeling a rush of gratitude and fondness for the bot. He reached out to take the pencil, making a show of admiring it before patting Dum-E on his claw, thumb delicately rubbing a pincer.
''I still can’t believe you haven't already looked into this,'' Bruce was scolding Tony with a shake of his head, ''I mean, seriously, Tony – ''
''Yeah, alright, I know, I dropped the ball,'' Tony retorted, moving past him again, ''total dick move on my part, but look, better late than never right?''
Peter couldn’t tell if he was actually expecting an answer or not. He refused to look at Tony and kept his focus on Dum-E as the bot wheeled away to no doubt find more gifts for him.
''So come on, Brucie, lay it on me.''
''This is…'' Bruce gave a little laugh, ''incredible. Medically, Peter’s an absolute marvel. Not unlike Steve in a lot of ways, though his rate of healing is extraordinary, much more advanced than Steve’s for sure.'' He turned to Peter. ''And you say that regular painkillers don’t work at all for you?''
Peter shook his head. ''Pretty sure I’d have to take a whole bottle of Tylenol for it even have a chance of doing any good.''
He laughed weakly and then flushed at the stern look Tony was giving him. He’d never mentioned that particular fact to Tony, but then again, the man had never asked.
''What about his metabolism?'' Tony said, waving a hand at the holograms. ''It’s gotta be, what, at least three times the average?''
''And that’s not taking into account the fact that he’s a teenager who’s still growing,'' Bruce agreed.
''Geez,'' Tony whistled, ''combine that with all the hormones and you’ve got yourself a heavy dose of teen angst with thrusters set on full.''
They were trying to make light of the situation, most likely for his sake, but Peter could detect the concern in Tony’s voice, in his tense posture as his eyes intensely analysed the information before him.
''Well, one thing’s for sure,'' Bruce said after a moment, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. ''We need to look at synthesising some suitable pain medication. Or at least test out the stuff we use for Steve to see if that has any effect.''
Tony clicked his fingers and pointed at Bruce in agreement. He dropped onto a nearby chair and swivelled it round, scooting along the floor so that he was closer to Peter. If it wasn’t for the intense look on Tony’s face, Peter would have found the movement funny.
''So spill it, kid. Tell us about the hunger.''
All traces of the earlier compassion were gone, leaving behind a demanding and not to be argued with Tony and the heated fingers of panic yanking at Peter’s throat. He fiddled nervously with the pencil as he ducked his head to avoid Tony’s gaze and stared at a fleck of dirt on the left knee of his faded jeans.
''Uh, so, I guess when I got bitten, I was way more hungry than usual,'' Peter knew he was already talking too fast but he just wanted to get the words out, wanted Tony to stop staring at him in the way that he was, ''but it wasn’t so bad then and I could definitely get by with just, you know, eating like a few more snacks and stuff.''
Peter swallowed, wincing at how thick his tongue suddenly felt. ''But then in the last few months it’s just been…'' he huffed out a breath. ''A lot, I dunno…''
Bruce asked for a description of his daily eating habits then, noting everything down with a carefully neutral face. Tony couldn't quite school his features in the same way and as Peter trailed off, feeling equal amounts of pathetic and scared, his expression had turned almost thunderous.
''On a scale of one to ten, how hungry would you say you usually are on most days, Peter?'' Bruce questioned.
Peter tensed, fingers of the hand holding onto the pencil digging in tight as he danced the line between lying and telling the truth. ''Um…like an eight and a half?''
Tony’s face darkened even more.
''Extra portions at dinner not an option?'' Tony asked, folding his arms.
''We, uh…'' Peter dropped the pencil and twisted his fingers into the thin paper sheet on the gurney, ''we don’t have much money, so, um, I guess I just…don’t eat as much? So the food lasts longer.''
Peter glanced up at the two men in front of him. Bruce’s face was sad, brown eyes wide with concern. Tony, however, looked appalled and Peter shrank back, feeling sick with guilt and shame again.
''So correct me if I’m wrong,'' Tony said slowly, ''which we all know I’m not, but that means you’re not even consuming a quarter of what your body needs to function properly on a daily basis?''
Peter recoiled, though the surge of indignation pushed him to boldly scowl at the man. ''It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose!''
Tony raised an eyebrow at him. ''Avoiding dinner every Friday night would suggest otherwise, kid.''
Peter’s jaw dropped. ''Avoiding – you didn’t invite me!''
A part of his brain was screaming at him to stop, to stop practically yelling at Tony Stark, but the rest of him was sinking under the hurt, squirming in offence at the suggestion that this was somehow his fault.
''You had the pizza and the – all the takeout and I - I told you that my practice got switched,'' god, he sounded like such a spoilt brat and he wanted to shrivel up and die, he really did, because the look Tony was giving him was awful, ''and, and I – I know I’m not a member of the team, I get it, but I…'' Peter deflated, air whooshing out of him in defeat. ''I like takeout too.''
His voice was tiny, pitiful and quivering.
''And I’m just so, so hungry, all the time.''
He wasn’t crying but he wanted to, and he was trembling violently, making the wheels of the gurney rattle softly against the floor. He’d ducked his head as he’d spoken to block out the sight of Tony and Bruce staring at him, analysing him, and now he was squinting at his feet, eyes lingering on the loose thread of his left sock.
There must have been a silent exchange between the two men because the next thing Peter knew, Bruce was somewhere on the far side of the room with Dum-E and Tony was standing in front of him, tilting his chin up with an impossibly gentle touch so that he could look at Peter’s face.
Up close, Peter could see the flecks of gold in the brown of Tony’s eyes; they remind him of the gilded plates of iron amongst the red of the Iron Man suits and he allowed himself to feel a small measure of comfort then, even if it was to be fleeting.
''Your practice got switched.''
It came out more like a statement than a question.
''Yeah…'' Peter said slowly. ''I told you, when I came by earlier than normal a few weeks ago.''
There was a strange sort of look on Tony’s face, some kind of mixture of frustrated and worried.
''So, obviously,'' he waved a finger back and forth between them, ''we need to work on our communication skills.''
Peter blinked. ''Huh?''
Tony rubbed the space between his eyebrows and sighed. ''The dinners? Impromptu, though I can see why you would think otherwise. I did wonder why you were turning up earlier and sloping off, though I just chalked it up to you being a moody teenager. I hear hiding away in a bedroom and sulking is still in fashion these days.''
''B-but…every Friday – ''
''Do you know how rare it is that I get to sit down and have dinner?'' Tony interrupted, leaning back on his chair. ''Or how often it is that I actually see Thor eating something that isn’t cooked in a toaster?''
Peter shook his head.
''It just so happens that lately we’ve all managed to be around at the same time. Someone will mention food and hey, next thing I know I’m getting dragged out of my lab to break bread with a guy I was at loggerheads with not that long ago.'' Tony fixed Peter with a careful stare. ''It’s nothing that I’d deliberately exclude you from, okay? If you want to join – ''
''I don’t have to,'' Peter said, looking back down at the floor and wishing it would just hurry up and swallow him whole already. ''You don’t – ''
''Kid,'' Tony interrupted, tapping Peter’s knee with a finger, ''this whole self-deprecation thing is adorable, it really is, but it’s unnecessary. It’s all fine, all right? The team would love to have you there. Hey, who knows, maybe you’ll be able to steal Captain Smug’s title of who can eat the most pizza in one evening.''
Peter’s thoughts immediately drifted back to the slices of stale pizza he’d been drooling over before.
''Maybe,'' he said slowly, breathing deeply against the tiny flare of nausea in his throat, ''maybe not pizza. Just for a while.''
''Sure,'' Tony replied. ''Whatever you want, kiddo.''
The gentleness in his tone brushed against the prickles of doubt that seemed to be sticking out of every bit of Peter’s body, patting them down and smoothing out the bumps they left behind. Peter lifted his gaze to look at Tony whose face softened almost imperceptibly as he gazed back at him.
''So, how’s about you and I get started on solving this thing, huh?'' Tony asked, resting a hand carefully on Peter’s shoulder. ''Cap wasn’t one for experimenting, but between us, I reckon you and I can come up with some stuff that will not only satisfy that monster of a metabolism, but possibly put Willy Wonka himself out of business. What do you say?''
Peter smiled. ''Willy Wonka isn’t real, Mister Stark.''
''Just as well,'' Tony said as stepped away to pulled up a hologram. ''I can’t stand sore losers.''
The sparkle of amusement in his eyes had Peter’s smile growing into a grin. He dropped down from the gurney and came to stand beside Tony, ducking his head bashfully when Tony wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
''Look, kid…'' Tony said, his face contorting into an odd grimace, like he was about to feel pain but hadn’t quite got there yet, ''I know I’m not the greatest at all of this stuff,'' he quirked the fingers of his free hand on the word stuff, ''but I don’t want you to ever feel like you can’t come to me, alright?''
Peter tilted further into Tony's side when the man gave him a soft squeeze, fingers tapping a comforting rhythm against the sleeve of his shirt.
''I’m here to help, yeah? That’s the whole point to all of this mentoring, the internship, all of that,'' Tony turned so that they were fully facing each other again, ''and that means I’m gonna fix this.''
The anxiety that had been bubbling into a scalding boil within Peter for what felt like so long eased into a simmer at Tony’s words. For the first time in ages, he felt like he mattered, like there was something to finally hold to in the ceaseless flood that he'd been drowning in, like he could make it.
And with Tony by his side, he was pretty sure that he would.
''Thanks, Mister Stark,'' he whispered, giving into the urge to lift his arms and give Tony a quick hug around the middle, a move that seemed to startle Tony just enough for a strangled gasp to leave his mouth. Peter instantly panicked, fearing that he'd overstepped the mark and misread the moment, but then Tony pulled him close again, arms hooking securely around Peter in a way that left him no choice but to rest his forehead in the juncture between Tony's neck and shoulder.
''Anytime, Underoos.''